


Chicken Wings and Ass Stings

by TrilliumWoods



Category: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (Movies)
Genre: Assault, Choking, Don't Read This, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Food, Fucked Up, Humiliation, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Spanking, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rope Bondage, Sexual Assault, Vaginal Fingering, Verbal Humiliation, how did this happen, lol, this is a shitpost gone wrong, you'll regret it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23922994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrilliumWoods/pseuds/TrilliumWoods
Summary: A stop at an unassuming little barbecue shack and gas station just outside of Newt, Texas one sweltering hot late summer afternoon goes very wrong.
Relationships: Drayton Sawyer/Original Character(s), Drayton Sawyer/Reader, Drayton Sawyer/You
Comments: 18
Kudos: 48





	Chicken Wings and Ass Stings

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a joke for a friend, and somehow, quite against my will, it mutated into an actual fic. I am afraid of myself for writing this, honestly.

You stop at an unassuming little barbecue shack and gas station just outside of Newt, Texas one sweltering hot late summer afternoon. “Fill it up, please,” you say to the man shuffling towards your car with a bucket full of soapy water and a rag in his hand. His head is oddly-shaped and you’re not quite sure if he’s bright enough to comprehend your instructions… but after a slight delay he nods once. “Thanks,” you smile, then head into the ramshackle building that advertises barbecue and bait for sale.

You order a basket of chicken wings and then ask to use the bathroom - it's been a long time on the road, after all. The middle-aged, smiling man behind the counter hands you a key and shows you around back to the dingy, one-stall restroom.

You do your business, feeling perfectly at ease and completely unaware that outside, the owner is telling the odd, shuffling man washing your car to take the rest of the day off. He's got something he needs to "take care of".

Back inside the barbecue shack you return the bathroom key to the proprietor. His hand lingers too long on yours as the key changes hands. You suddenly feel nervous, though you aren't sure why. Perhaps it's the way he's looking at you, all shifty-eyed and nervous himself. His lips curl back, exposing jutting, slightly-greying teeth as he gives you an unmistakably creepy grin. His benign sort of energy is suddenly anything but, and now the hair is standing up on the back of your neck and your attempt to smile in return utterly fails.

"Well... thanks for the chicken..." you stammer.

"Well now… now it ain’t no trouble at all, miss. Glad you stopped by." His grin grows wider still.

You pick your grease-and-bbq-sauce saturated paper bag full of chicken up off the counter and back a few steps away from him, back towards the door.

"Let me show ya out, little lady," he offers. It isn't necessary - the door is right there - but you can't find any good reason to tell him no.... and even if you could, you wouldn't have the time because before you see it coming, the bag of food is violently knocked from your grip by his hand, which then wrap tightly around your wrist. Your erstwhile lunch goes skidding across the cement floor and he jerks you back towards him - for a somewhat thin, average-sized man, he's disturbingly strong.

"Let go!" you protest, trying and failing to slap him with your other hand, but he snatches it midair and throws you to the ground, just like that spilled bag of chicken. "Motherfu-" you shriek as your ass hits the cold cement floor. You brace the heels of your hands on the ground and attempt to get to your feet, but your assailant is on you before you can move. He's laughing now as his hands wrap around your throat, one bony knee pressed into the meat of your thigh and pinning you to the ground.

It hurts, but you barely notice - the more pressing issue at hand is the way his hands are pressing against your windpipe, constricting your breath and making the panic rise up from your guts in an icy cold rush… but worse, even worse than that, is the warm rush spreading down from your guts and down lower. You wish you could claim you've pissed yourself out of fear... but it isn't that. It isn't that at all.

Squeezing his wrists is getting you nowhere, so instead you reach up for his hair. It's dark, thinning and slicked back from a combination of hair gel and sweat, and you grab as much as you can and pull. But he doesn't release you - he only laughs harder, an evil, hysterical, sadistic cackle that fills up the suddenly way-too-small room.

"No... now now, little missy, ain't no one gonna hurt ya!" he sneers. Your vision is starting to blur as your oxygen decreases. Never did you imagine you'd meet your end on the floor of a backwoods gas station at the hands of a shabby, homely middle-aged man.But here you are.

You're sure it's the end... but then he lets go and lifts up his knee. You immediately suck in huge gulps of humid, meat-scented air, coughing and choking and rolling onto your side. He doesn't give you time to recover for long. You didn't see the rough coil of rope anywhere in the room, but suddenly he has it in his hands. He reaches for yours where they're shielding your own throat, coughing and gasping and trying not to inhale the dust covering the floor.

"N-no!" you rasp when he rolls you onto your stomach and twists your wrists back. You flop and flail like a fish on dry land, trying to kick him anywhere you can. You're not sure what part of his body your foot finally makes contact with, but his laughing is cut off by a grunt of pain.

Apparently kicking him was a mistake, because his laughter turns into a snarl: "Ya little bitch! You behave yerself now or I'll fuck you right up, you hear me?"

Anger tints your fear, self-righteous rage at his condescension making you see red. Which is perfectly understandable. But what you can't justify is the way his threat makes the heat throb between your legs. One hand grips the back of your head and slams down, knocking your skull into the pavement and stunning you. Stars burst behind your lids and your struggling stops, then lickety-split, Drayton has your wrists bound tightly behind your back. He's obviously done this before and you're horrified... but you're more horrified by the fact that his skill with a rope is somehow turning you on. You decide to blame it on your head injury.

"There," he announces once you're thoroughly bound. He's panting from exertion and when he pulls your head around by your hair to face him you see that his creepy smile is back. "Nice an' hogtied. Just like little sluts like you oughta be." His tongue slides lecherously along his jutting-out teeth as he sweeps back his disheveled hair with one hand. Your face burns.

"Now... now look what ya did, you little whore." he sneers as he leans down right next to your face. His breath smells like cigarettes, barbecue and gingivitis. You can see the sadism glinting in his eyes. He forces your gaze away from him and instead to the spilled chicken wings on the ground only three feet away. "You made a damn mess, that's what ya did. Yer just as big a slob as Bubba, and I ain't gonna stand fer that from you no more'n I stand it from him."

You haven't got a clue who "Bubba" is, but whoever he is you feel sorry for him when Drayton suddenly slaps you right on your upturned ass - hard.

You yelp, more in surprise than pain, and your face burns hotter still. He smacks you again, but then murmurs, "Hrm. This ain't no good, you need a real good punishin'."And before you know it, your pants and underwear are roughly tugged down to your thighs, exposing your ass, both cheeks already flushed from the impact of his palm. He spanks you again, the resounding slap of his work-roughened hand against your bare flesh echoing off the cinder block walls. You cry out sharply at the sweet sting, can feel your ass jiggle from the shockwave of his blow.

“Fuck!” you cry out in pain mixed with pleasure - a pleasure you despise yourself for feeling. How can this scrawny, greasy old man who’s attacked you and tied you up on the floor be giving you pleasure while you’re simultaneously out of your mind with fear and rage?

“Language, missy!” he scolds you and gives you an extra-hard spank. His voice is the definition of sadistic glee, and he starts laughing again as you squirm against the floor like one of the bait worms advertised for sale on the door.

“Let me go, you sick basta- AH!” your admonition is cut off by another stinging slap of his hand. Over and over he spanks you, till your ass cheeks are cherry-red and hot, and you feel your own slick heat seeping from between your legs. You shift your thighs together in search of relief, hoping he won’t notice. Your shame burns hotter than your abused backside, and then it gets worse - apparently you weren’t being as subtle as you’d hoped.

“You like this, dontcha? Yeah, you like bein’ a bad girl and gettin’ what you deserve, don’t cha?”

“N-no!” you mumble against the concrete, but your tone betrays your words.

“Liar! I can smell yer little pussy. It's makin' you wet, ain't it? Yer wetter than a greased-up bullfrog, ain’t you, you little slut. Well I told ya' I weren't gonna hurt ya, didn't I? Didn't I?"

“F-fuck you!” you snarl, then try to spit the dust stuck to your lip away.

“Lyin’ whore! I should slap your lyin’ mouth, but I got a better idea.”

He’s laughing while says it, though he sounds bizarrely nervous now considering what he’s doing and the threats that he’s making. He rolls you roughly onto your back, and you’re half relieved and - awfully - half disappointed that the spanking appears to be over. You decide right then and there that if his “better idea” is sticking his dick in your mouth that you’ll bite it right off and run for freedom, but alas, instead he reaches for a filthy-looking rag looped around the oven handle nearby.

You try once again to wriggle away from him but he pulls your hair and digs his knee into your hip to keep you in place, then crams the disgusting cloth into your mouth. You’d tried to keep your lips pursed tightly shut, but it’s no use. You gag around the filthy, gritty, grease-flavored fabric and your captor chortles in unbridled glee before suddenly looking slightly sheepish again. It’s as though he keeps trying and ultimately failing to rein in his demented desires. The strength of his perversion is too great to be held in check by whatever decency he possesses.

Your heartbeat pounds even faster when you glance down and see his cock tenting his worn-out, ill-fitting old khaki slacks. This sick fucker is getting off on this - even more than you are, damn it. You writhe around on the floor, trying to take the pressure of your weight off your bound wrists behind you and the way it forces your elbows out at odd angles. You stop kicking, hoping that he’ll get close enough that you can kick him in the balls when he doesn’t expect it, but alas… he outsmarts you once again. He leaves your side for only a moment and you try to struggle to your feet, not even caring that you’ll be running out of the building with your pants and underwear around your thighs, but he’s back in a flash with a broom in his hand. He knocks you in the back of your knees with the hard wooden handle and you drop to the floor once again, cursing into the rag and tears pricking your eyes as your kneecaps hit the concrete. He cackles in delight and shoves you face-first on the floor, then yanks at your pants and underwear till they’re down past your shins, over your ankles, and then off. You scream and flail but it’s no use - he hits you hard with the broom every time you struggle too much for his liking, and that is definitely all pain and no pleasure, unlike the spankings.

“Spread yer legs open, you filthy thing, let’s get you all gussied up now, eh? Not that nothin’ can make such a dirty slut look classy...”

Your agonized, embarrassed moan is muffled by the rag as he pulls your legs apart, exposing your most private place to his no-doubt lecherous gaze. You squeeze your eyes shut and try to fight back, but he expertly binds one of your ankles to the end of the broomstick… and then does the same to your other, leaving you spread-eagle and utterly helpless. This is horrible. The most horrific, degrading, dangerous thing you’ve ever experienced… but it’s also the most exciting as well and you hate it and yourself with the strength of one thousand supernovas.

“There we go… that suits ya. Can’t git in no more trouble now, can ya’?” he says smugly, then bends your knees so your feet are up in the air, forced apart by the makeshift spreader bar. He drops them again and you nearly stub your toes when your feet hit the floor. “Now, git up on yer knees, you gotta mess to clean up.” he commands. You scream your best ‘fuck you’ but it’s completely unintelligle through the rag in your mouth and it only makes him laugh. “On yer knees, you two-bit tramp, or you’ll be fuckin’ sorry you didn’t!” Drayton slaps your ass hard, and at last you decide it might be wise to obey. You try to get to your knees, but it’s difficult with your arms and ankles bound and your captor chuckles as he enjoys watching you struggle. When you’re at last in a kneeling position he grabs your hair and twists, bringing your attention once again to the ruined chicken wings on the ground. “Wastin’ food’s a sin, doncha know. But damn city folk don’t care ‘bout that, do they? Buncha sinners and heathens and no-good, fudge-packin’ cocksuckers.”

Bitterness drips from his every word and you wish you could laugh in his homely, hangdog face for acting as though he himself is not a sinner. You also wish you could remind him that he was the one who knocked the food out of your hands, but again - you’re in no position to do much of anything right now except brace yourself for whatever this sick bastard is going to subject you to next. “Git down,” he snarls once more, this time guiding your head towards the floor just over the cold, clammy wings. “Now lookit that mess. I already got two damn halfwit fools to clean up after and I don’t need no more, so yer just gonna have to take care of this mess right here.” He reaches for the rag in your mouth. “Soon’s I take this out, you’re gonna be a good girl and clean it up, or else I’ll paddle your sweet little ass right through next Sunday, you hear me?”

Despite your precarious position, you shake your head in defiance.

“Oh really now? Well then if paddlin’ yer tender little rump roast won’t make you behave, then maybe I’ll just crack ya’ on the head and skin ya’ like a possum and take ya’ home for Bubba to wear, how ‘bout that?”

Ice rushes through your veins. What in the name of God does that mean? The previous spark of sympathy you’d felt for this ‘Bubba’ person is snuffed out in a second, and you shake your head fast.

“That’s what I thought.” Drayton says smugly, then pulls the rag from your mouth. There’s only one way you can think of to clean up the chunks of meat and splatters of sauce on the floor with your arms tied behind your back, and you wince and grit your teeth as you lean further down. Your lips curl back and you pinch the first piece of chicken between your front teeth, then try to transport it over to the paper bag next to it, but Drayton unexpectedly yanks your hair.

“Nuh-uh. You paid for it, and wastin’ money’s even worse’n wastin’ food. Eat it.”

You feel like crying, but less from the humiliation itself and more from the humiliation of being aroused by it. You’re learning a whole lot about yourself here in this grimy old barbecue shack - much more than you ever wanted to know. You choke down the first piece, and if you weren’t so thoroughly repulsed by the dirt stuck to it you would appreciate how tasty the sauce is.

“There we go,” Drayton coos, and he almost sounds like he’s trying to comfort you. “Eat it all, up, good girl…”

Tears finally do manage to leak from your eyes, which then widen in alarm when you hear the sound of a zipper being undone. Oh, god, is he… is he going to…? You jump and yelp, the piece of chicken falling out of your mouth and back on the ground when you feel his hand on your ass, not spanking this time, but rather gripping. He squeezes your flesh, still raw from the abuse it had suffered not long ago, then runs one finger between your cheeks and down to your slit, and you curse inwardly at the wetness he finds. He’s breathing heavily, wheezing slightly like early emphysema. He gropes around between your spread thighs and your pussy clenches, trying to prevent him from slipping his fingers inside but it’s useless. His fingers are thin but the knuckles are knobbly as they slip past your opening. They’re clearly unclean, and they add to the filth already saturating your body and mind. He twists your hair harder as you pick up the next piece of chicken, and you hear the jangling of his belt buckle and feel him sidle up closer, the fabric of his trousers brushing against your naked leg.

You choke out a sob as he probes deeper inside, adding a third finger. His panting speeds up and he grits harshly: “Keep going, you filthy whore.” You resume your task, grateful that you only purchased the small serving of wings instead of the big bucket. The belt buckle keeps jangling and you wonder what on earth he’s doing back there… but then it hits you like a 2-ton weight: he’s jerking himself off as he fingers and humiliates you. The coward isn’t even going to show you his penis while he defiles you. He’s even sicker than you thought and you feel bile rise in your throat even as your pussy gets even wetter. Apparently you’re sicker than you thought, too.

At last you swallow the last bit of meat and spit out the bones, but your assailant isn’t done yet. Oh no, not at all. “Finish the job,” he growls. “Lick it up, that’s prize-winning barbecue sauce, y’know.”

“Please, don’t make me,” you beg, but he is unmoved.

“Do it! No talkin’ back or I’ll flay your hide raw!” he hisses and plunges his fingers in you so deep that it hurts.

“Okay, okay!” you cry out, scrunching your eyes shut in misery as your tongue slips reluctantly between your lips to just barely touch the tangy sauce mixed with dirt. It seems to excite him even more and the noises he’s making are completely repulsive as he apparently jerks himself faster: little grunts and wheezy mumbling of filthy things that you try to tune out as you lick the concrete like a dog. You know he won’t be satisfied with a half-assed job, so you eventually have to force yourself to drag your tongue flush against the dusty floor to clean up every last speck, and the disgusting taste almost takes your mind off of his plunging fingers and the sound of him masturbating. He fingers you clumsily and you can’t tell if it’s from inexperience or if he just doesn’t care about your pleasure. How could he care about your pleasure considering what he’s making you do? It’s still disturbingly effective, though, and you’re closer to orgasm than you dare to admit.

“Finish it,” he pants, and by the wavering of his voice you suspect that he’s close. “Clean it all up like a good little bitch. Clean it!”

You moan pitifully, at last broken by your situation. Your abject defeat finally finishes him off, his noises taking on an agonized tone of their own and his fingers going still as you feel the weak splatter of watery semen on your ass as he comes. There isn’t much but it runs down your crack anyway, seeping into your cunt above his fingers, still buried deep inside you.

There’s no sound after that save his panting and your sniffling, scraping your tongue along the edge of your teeth to try and remove the grime. “I’m finished,” you finally mumble after several long minutes of suffocating discomfort.

“You’d damn well better be,” he replies, still slightly breathless. You hear the sound of his pants being refastened and then he moves away. He pulls at the back of your shirt to force you into an upright kneeling position, then leans over you to inspect your work. “Well now. Now you did a right good job there, didn’t you missy?” His voice is nauseatingly kind now, as if he was a loving uncle congratulating you on getting straight-As in school. “Could use a good girl who does as she’s told around the house.” He shoves the rag into your still-bound hands, then walks around in front of you so you can at last see his face again, though you can’t look him in the eye. “Clean yerself up and we’ll get you home. We’ll have a nice dinner and you’re gonna be just fine. I’ll introduce you to my little brothers. They’re gonna have a real fun time with you.”

That last line is said with a dastardly grin and you shiver. You’re still throbbing and unfulfilled between your legs, frustrated both by your predicament and the fact that he didn’t have the decency to let you come, too. What sort of ‘fun’ will his brothers have with you? You hope it’s not skinning you like a possum and wearing your hide… but you’re too ashamed to admit to yourself that you hope even more that it’s just as depraved as what you’d just been put through. If Drayton’s brothers are as fucked up as he is, then you can only imagine what your future entails.


End file.
